Shamrocks
by Kirby's Cowgirl
Summary: An exhausted Hanley thinks he's having hallucinations when Sally's relatives come calling.


Shamrocks

_There was a leprechaun standing in front of his desk!_

Hanley blinked, scrubbed his eyes with his fists, realized that his hands were filthy, and felt his eyes start to water.

The leprechaun was still there. _The leprechaun had on Captain's bars!_ Hanley suddenly realized that he hadn't had a uniform change or a shave in two days. As he jumped up and started to salute, he caught his long legs in the packing crate he was sitting on, and crashed down on the muddy floor. It was just too much trouble to get up. He was going to have to have Doc declare him unfit for command. He was having hallucinations brought on by battle fatigue. He'd heard of such things before, but never thought they'd happen to _him._

48 hours earlier

"Brockmeyer, you've got to get that radio working." Hanley told the Corporal.

The stocky young man was almost in tears. "I don't know what else to do, sir." He had spread a borrowed sheet from the hospital on the ground, and had the radio completely taken apart, with spare parts scavenged from other units sitting on another sheet.

"Hell, I'll fix it." A voice said. They both looked up to see Smitty staggering toward them.

"You'll get your ass back in bed, is what you'll do." Hanley told him.

"I may have gotten my arm blowed off, but I'm still the best damn radio operator in this army." Smitty said, ignoring him, and struggling to sit down on the sheet. Brockmeyer caught him before he fell, shot a questioning look at Hanley.

"Smitty, I don't have time to argue with you -" Hanley started. He knew the man was frustrated. They'd been trying to send him to the rear, but every time a truck came, he disappeared. The Doctors had finally told Hanley as long as his stump didn't get infected, there really wasn't much more that could be done for him. Smitty evidently didn't have a home to go to, and he still wanted to fight Krauts. He helped the nurses, and filled in doing the orderlies light duties. He'd sit with wounded soldiers for hours, and hold dying men's hands. All the nurses adored him, and while none of them had said anything outright to Hanley, he knew he was going to be very unpopular when he did finally manage to get Smitty moved to the rear.

"Then don't. Let me fix the damn thing." Smitty said, grabbing parts and holding them between his knees. He jammed them together so fast they couldn't comprehend what he was doing. "I heard you. If we don't get some damn help, you're going to have to try and evacuate the hospital. I'm the only man in there who _can walk_. None of the nurses will leave the patients. We've got one damn truck, no communication, we don't know which way to run -" he stopped, grabbed a tube, turned it around twice, thrust it at Brockmeyer. "I need another one of these."

"I checked it twice -"

"It's bad. Find me another one." Smitty ordered.

A sudden commotion made them all look up, and Hanley and Brockmeyer grabbed their weapons. Smitty flung himself over the radio. Littlejohn burst into the clearing with an unconscious Saunders slung over one shoulder. He was dragging Caje, who appeared to be wounded, with his other arm.

Radio forgotten, Hanley and Brockmeyer raced to help, grabbing Caje as Littlejohn staggered.

"Sergeant Hall told me to get the Sarge to the hospital and tell you we needed some help." Littlejohn choked out. He'd just grabbed Caje up too as he passed him. Both of them were badly hurt, and needed as Doc would have put it,  
"A _real_ Doctor."

They eased Saunders down inside the tent, and a Doctor and an orderly rushed him straight into the curtained off area. Brockmeyer stretched Caje out on the floor, and Littlejohn looked at Hanley. "Sir, we're runnin' out of ammo. Almost everybody is hit. Sergeant Hall's medic's dead. Doc is tryin' to patch everybody back together -" he stopped, swayed a little, and Hanley grabbed him as he started to crumple.

"Shit." Hanley said, as it became apparent that the blood staining Littlejohn's jacket was his own. He ripped the giant's shirt open and took the sulfa and bandage that Brockmeyer thrust at him.

"We need some help out here!" Brockmeyer yelled.

The first orderly came back with another man, and they quickly accessed Caje and Littlejohn. "Keep holding pressure." one of them told Hanley.

"Sir, we couldn't make radio contact." Caje choked out. "They can't hold the line without some help. I'll go back -" he was trying to sit up.

"Brockmeyer, get on that damn radio, and get it fixed!" Hanley snapped. "Caje, can you hold pressure on this?"

"I can go back." Caje said, still struggling to sit up.

"I need you to help Littlejohn. If you don't he's going to bleed to death."

Caje nodded, slid across the floor, and put both hands down on the bandage. Brockmeyer went running outside, and Hanley followed him, yelling orders at the few men that were in camp. There were only four of them, and they were guarding the hospital. Either he left the hospital unguarded, or he left his men to die. If the Germans broke thru the line, the hospital was gone anyway. He had to leave Brockmeyer to man the radio.

They grabbed extra ammo and took off running. A man racing behind them made Hanley turn.

"Sir! Smitty got the radio fixed!" Brockemeyer panted. "He's calling for help. I gave him and the orderlies the extra rifles we had. One of the junior nurses said that her Dad was a ham operator and she knows how to help Smitty. You need my rifle too, don't you?"

"Well." A voice cut into Hanley's thoughts. "I thought you were going to yell at him, and I was going to kick his ass. What did you hit him with?"

The leprechaun chuckled. "He fell over. I must be frightening. And I think a kitten could whip his ass about now."

Hanley wanted to protest that it would take _at least_ two kittens, but he couldn't get his mouth open. He was having a battle fatigue induced hallucination that kept getting worse.

"You hear that Alex's men held the line after Sergeant Hall was wounded?" that was _General Taggart's_ voice.

The leprechaun nodded. "Which one is she going to marry?"

"I'd actually prefer McCall, but I have a feeling that she's already married Kirby."

"McCall's a good man. From his records, I'd say he's been thru hell a couple times."

"Remind me to do something for him if this damn mess is ever over."

"I'll add it to the list." The leprechaun sighed. "What are we going to do about _him?"_

He didn't actually kick Hanley, just bumped him with a tiny little boot.

"Well, I was going to knock some sense into him, but I don't know."

"If he's stupid enough to believe rumors about our girl, I don't know if he deserves her."

The little man was angry.

"Sally's a good soldier. I don't approve of all of her methods, but she gets the job done. If it wasn't for this damn War, she'd be back safe in the States, with a secretarial job."

"And poor Alex would still be married to that worthless Bill."

"Omaha Beach saved me killin' him."

The little man sighed. "We did the best we could."

"What did two old army men know about raising little girls?"

Hanley had thought they were still talking about D Day, and he struggled, trying to wrap his mind around what they had just said. Sally and Alex were related. Which meant that Sally was _also_ related to General Taggart. And Alex was related to the leprechaun. This was just too confusing.

He wanted an Army career. He wanted Sally Tavish, nicknamed "Sleeparound Sally." He could not have both. He could never take Sally home to meet his society parents. He had never even let himself kiss the woman, because he knew that if he did, he'd throw everything away. And Sally was _involved_ with Colonel Jackson, whether that was just pretense for work or not. He would have been better off to if he'd fallen in love with Alex West. God forbid.

"Sir? Sir?"

Hanley dimly realized that someone was shaking him. He must have fallen asleep. He was lying in the floor, tangled up in the packing crate he'd been using to sit on. And he had had one _hell_ of a nightmare.

"Did you hit your head?" Brockmeyer asked worriedly, at no response from the Lieutenant. "I'll get a medic!"

"No." Hanley said, struggling to sit up, and letting Brockmeyer help him. "I'm alright. Sorry." He said to the Corporal, who looked as if he were going to burst into tears. "I guess I fell asleep."

"You told me you were going to bed." Brockmeyer said accusingly. "I wouldn't have left if -"

"I told you to grab a shower and get some sleep." Hanley interrupted him. "I see you followed orders."

"Yes sir." Brockmeyer said, righting the crate, and making sure that Hanley was seated securely on it before letting go. He started picking up the papers scattered on the floor and replacing them on the makeshift desk.

Hanley ran his hands thru his hair. He had had a nightmare. That's all it was. He didn't know when he'd had any sleep. They had had one hell of a battle. He didn't know -

He jumped up, nearly fell again. "Saunders!"

"Everybody's okay, Lieutenant. They said Littlejohn was worse off than anybody, but he's gonna be alright. Why don't you grab a shower and go see them?"

"I have to finish this report." Hanley said, covering a yawn.

"I'll type it for you." Brockmeyer said, gathering up the last of the papers. "Where did this come from?" He held up a shamrock cut from green construction paper.


End file.
